Whence Gaza Mourns
by mahc
Summary: JED-ABBEY His decision. His request. His order. His fault. Post-ep for "Gaza" and "Memorial Day."
1. If Wishes Were Horses

This is a post-ep for "Gaza" and "Memorial Day." Thanks to Linda M. for looking over it and correcting the name of Jed's Navy doctor from the second episode of the show. I like the better relationship between Jed and Abbey that they were showing at the end of the season but, as always, I would like to see more of them together. Because of that, I decided to input my own little scenes. Hope you enjoy!  
  
POV: Jed Spoilers: "WKODHIB;" "ITSOTG;" "The State Dinner;" "18th and Potomac;" "The War at Home;" "No Exit;" "Gaza:" "Memorial Day" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters were created by AS. They are not mine, unfortunately  
  
Whence Gaza Mourns A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Chapter One of Three  
  
All is best, though we oft doubt, What th' unsearchable dispose Of highest wisdom brings about, And ever best found in the close. Oft he seems to hide his face, But unexpectedly returns And to his faithful Champion hath in place Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns And all that band them to resist His uncontroulable intent, His servants he with new acquist Of true experience from this great event With peace and consolation hath dismist, And calm of mind all passion spent. ATTRIBUTION: John Milton (1608–1674), British poet. Samson Agonistes (l. 1745–1758). . .   
  
He had never gotten the answer about the rug.  
  
It would have been simple, really, but he had never done it. Granted, he had been a little distracted that day – getting shot and all – but that didn't stop him from regretting not finding out the answer to the rug.  
  
It was the least he could have done for Fitz. He still wondered, glancing down at the eagle. He wondered if they really did change it. He wondered if he was about to make a move that would call for the noble head to turn, to face the arrows of war. He wondered if maybe they were already there. He wished Fitz were going there with him.  
  
The ache in his chest twisted as he pictured the imposing, gentle man who had held his hand through that first trying year as a novice President, before his naivety had hardened into perceptive decisiveness. Fitz, who had brought the Joint Chiefs to him. Fitz who had been his favorite, most- trusted Chairman. Fitz, who had talked him down to a proportional response after Dr. Tolliver had been killed and talked him up to a covert execution two and a half years later, then tried to take the fall for it. Fitz, whose quiet assurance had given solidity and comfort to a president who was struggling for secure footing on foreign policy.  
  
He hadn't deserved such an end. Hadn't asked for that fate. He had served dutifully for thirty-nine years, had survived real combat, only to be blown to bits by a coward's device. And at whose request?  
  
But that certainly wasn't unusual. Jed Bartlet had become accustomed to being responsible for the deaths of other human beings – those he loved – those he despised – those he didn't even know.  
  
Nine men in Colombia. An entire tender ship. Delores Landingham. Abdul Shareef. Percy Fitzwallace.  
  
His decision. His request. His order. His fault.  
  
The sun's muted rays punched their way through the thick waving glass of the huge Oval Office windows as he stood, staring out into the dual creatures of terror and vengeance that panted in eagerness to rake their claws through his soul. If one didn't get him, the other most certainly would. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. But he was damned if he would act rashly, that was certain.  
  
His fingers, his lips, his lungs ached for a cigarette. Just one. Just a puff or two to settle his thoughts. But he had promised Abbey he would quit. Or try to quit, anyway. And as minor as breaking such a promise seemed compared to the massive infractions of his past, he didn't know if that small additional weight on his guilt might not just be the ounce that broke him.  
  
No. He would do without. He just hoped he could survive the effort.  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
Leo stood at the door, formal as always, deferential as usual. But his body leaned forward in expectation, almost as if he had trouble refraining from taking his friend and physically dragging him to the red button himself. He expected action. They all expected action.  
  
"Yeah?" The President turned back to face the window, not wanting to see the disappointment in the weathered face.  
  
"Here are some preliminary numbers. Kate Harper is arranging contact with the Chairman."  
  
"Thanks." Jed didn't move to accept anything.  
  
After a moment, Leo prompted, "Mister President, you know it's useless. We have no choice but to bomb."  
  
No. Not now. Not yet. It had been a hell of a long day and he just needed a few more minutes to think. Ten minutes of not being told that the People of Jehovah were trying to obliterate the People of Allah or visa versa.  
  
"I'll be in the Residence, Leo. I'll call you when -- when I come back down." It was a clear brush off, and one his oldest friend had seldom, if ever, heard.  
  
After a tight pause, the response came. "Yes, sir."  
  
The door closed with a soft click, but Jed thought it might be the most obvious symbol of a more significant closing. That of a relationship. Wearily, he trudged toward the Residence.  
  
Just a few minutes, he decided. He would lie on the couch for just a few minutes, trying to push back the headache that had begun a slow but dedicated hammering against his temple. His loafers lay on the floor where he had kicked them off, one perpendicular to the other. He shook his head at the symbolism of that. But was he the one pointed in the right direction or was it the rest of the country? The report lay in his lap, stark black and white statements that proclaimed the strength of the combined military might of the United States of America. Might that waited for his mere nod to sweep across continents, to incinerate nations. It was terrifyingly intoxicating at times.  
  
They were pushing hard. Democrats and Republicans alike. Pushing for a response. Pushing for a show of power. Pushing for vengeance.  
  
Pushing.  
  
Even Leo. "Sir, the country wants action."  
  
It was not as if he had never disagreed with his chief of staff. But he had always seemed to bow to the veteran's experience in military matters. Leo knew. Leo had been there. He had not. At least not until he became President of the United States.  
  
He always deferred to Leo. Until now. Because Leo was wrong. And last time Leo talked him in to something that was wrong, unthinkable disaster had struck. He would not let that happen again. No matter what. And now he was actually entertaining the possibility of talking with a lying, conniving, son of a bitch whose highly questionable cooperation he need to broker the peace deal he sought.  
  
"That wasn't Toby's speech."  
  
The curse left his mouth involuntarily. He hadn't heard her come in, but there she was, strolling toward him with that cocky smirk she wore when she was challenging him on something. Throughout their marriage, she had perfected it with use.  
  
Recovering, he picked up the document and feigned interest in it. "Hmm?"  
  
"That wasn't Toby's speech," she repeated simply, resting a hand on the back of the sofa.  
  
He glanced at her over his glasses, the new ones he was still trying to get used to, then returned to the paper. "It was."  
  
But she knew him too well. "Not unedited," she amended.  
  
He shrugged, and allowed another glance. "No."  
  
Although her tone remained casual, he heard the purpose behind it. "He didn't mind?"  
  
Toby? Mind? What would make you think that? "Doesn't matter."  
  
Now she propped on the couch arm and dropped her hand, rubbing gently over the foot he had braced there. "No, I suppose not. What's the latest?"  
  
A dry chuckle brushed past his lips. "The Jews and Arabs hate each other. Have you heard?"  
  
"Something about it," she returned with a slight smile, which sobered almost immediately. "It's bad?"  
  
His lips pressed together hard as he nodded.  
  
"And you're getting pressure to do something about it." Not a question.  
  
He looked at her, his eyes clear enough for confirmation.  
  
"Something you don't want to do," she surmised easily.  
  
His eyes lowered again.  
  
"Well, in the end, it's your call."  
  
"Yeah," he agreed, his tone almost one of defeat.  
  
With a knuckle, she pressed against his heel and inched up firmly toward the ball of his foot. It felt good. "Fitz was your friend," she said quietly, gazing past him toward the window. "It would be natural for you want to see justice done for his death."  
  
His eyes narrowed. Was she throwing in with all the war hawks to annihilate Gaza? "Yeah?"  
  
Meeting his gaze steadily, she asked, "Wouldn't it?"  
  
"You tell me."  
  
"What does Leo say?"  
  
Leo. He blanched and saw that she noticed. He didn't want to think about what Leo said.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
Looking away, he muttered, "That doesn't matter either."  
  
"It always has before."  
  
He glanced back, wary of the accusation he might see, of the blame for letting Leo's voice guide him where he didn't want to go, where she didn't want him to go. But there was only a soft compassion and acknowledgement of the truth. It always had before. What had changed?  
  
He couldn't reason with Leo. Couldn't make him see why bombing Gaza would be wrong, why he so desperately needed peace. But Abbey seemed perfectly willing to reason. In fact, she looked as if she was asking him to talk it out with her. The sudden appearance of someone who wasn't pushing him to act, to send out the planes, whipped a rush of relief through him, and he sat up, taking off the glasses and tossing them onto the coffee table.  
  
"They all want me to – the leadership, the press, the staff. Abbey, what if – I can't – "Pressing his lips together momentarily, he was able to verbalize what he feared most. "I bomb Gaza and the whole world plunges in. This could be the beginning of a real life World War III, and I'm telling you – Fitz or no Fitz – Leo or no Leo – I'm not gonna be the one to – "  
  
She slid from the couch arm to kneel by him, one hand covering his, the other brushing the hair back from his forehead. Suddenly, the anger, the fear, the pain found an enemy in the tenderness and understanding in her eyes.  
  
"Leo doesn't know everything," she said, not unkindly.  
  
"No?"  
  
"No."  
  
"He knows a lot," he offered, curious for her response.  
  
She smiled. "But not everything."  
  
"No," he agreed finally. "Not everything."  
  
"You know a lot, too," she reminded, skimming his cheek with the backs of her fingers.  
  
As she had probably intended, a smile tugged at his lips. "But not everything."  
  
"No," she had to concede.  
  
He wished to God he did, though. He wished he knew what to do. He wished Leo understood his point. He wished Fitz were alive to advise him. He wished –  
  
"If wishes were horses," he muttered, not realizing he had said it aloud until her flat observation.  
  
"You'd be up to your ass in horse shit."  
  
He laughed, the first moment of levity in a decidedly un-amusing day, and nodded. "Like I'm not already."  
  
Nudging him onto his side, she lay on the couch next to him, her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist, her mouth turned up in a satisfied smirk. It was only natural that he should lean down and kiss her, letting his lips move slowly and gently. Only for a few minutes, he decided. They would need him back in the Sit Room soon. Or the Oval.  
  
They were pushing. Democrats. Republicans. Senators. Representatives. The Joint Chiefs. The Secretary of Defense.  
  
Leo.  
  
They were pushing.  
  
But as his wife's body snuggled against his, he let her warm silence feed his strength. He would need it.  
  
Because he was about to push back. 


	2. Kennedy Was a Wuss

Thanks for the feedback from the first chapter. If you've seen the final episode, this occurs after the heated argument between Jed and Leo outside the Oval Office under the walkway. Hope you enjoy.  
  
POV: Jed Spoilers: "The State Dinner;" "ITSOTG;" "Posse Comitatus;" "Gaza;" "Memorial Day" Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: These characters are not my creation, but I love to play with them.  
  
Whence Gaza Mourns A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Chapter Two of Three  
  
"When the sun comes up in Gaza, you're gonna have to launch those planes."  
  
As Jed Bartlet stormed past the whitewashed pillars of the colonnade, the words rebounded in his head, hardened by the concrete conviction in his chief of staff's tone.  
  
"You're gonna have to launch those planes."  
  
Damn. Damn it!  
  
The agents stood their ground, as usual, but flinched a little as their commander stalked by them, his jaw hard, his eyes gray. Some had heard the conversation he had just had, but it wasn't their place to comment. Either way, he figured, they'd probably be on Leo's side. Everyone else was.  
  
It would be so easy, so expected, so demanded, to send the power of a mere two FA-18s into that tormented land. To show the anger of the United States, to display the severe disapproval of the world's police and be done with it.  
  
"The Israelis are right," Leo had emphasized. "There's only one way to bring stability to this region, and we should be out there with them digging ditches and putting up barbed wire."  
  
The sheer incredulity of the declaration stunned him. "Defense?"  
  
"It's a realistic solution," Leo had argued.  
  
"It's a land grab!"  
  
"There's no alternative."  
  
No alternative? He had walked away, unable to break Leo's stubborn position, unwilling to bend his own.  
  
But as the fury of the moment calmed a bit, as the breeze of a Washington late spring day cooled his ire, he fell once more into retrospection. Were they right? Should the U.S. throw in their lot completely with God's Chosen People? It's what Congress wanted. It's what America wanted. It's what Leo wanted.  
  
But it wasn't what Jed Bartlet wanted.  
  
He had not even looked at the final report, the collateral damage assessment he had tossed onto a chair as soon as Leo handed it to him. Wouldn't matter. He knew what it said. Fifty dead. Maybe thirty. Twenty if they bombed after school had begun. None of those numbers were acceptable.  
  
Leo thought – Leo told him –  
  
But as Abbey had said, Leo wasn't always right, was he? Didn't they have a year and a half of pure hell over Shareef and Zoey to prove that? Leo hadn't foreseen that result. Neither had Fitz for that matter. None of them had. He wished to God they had. He wished –  
  
He was wishing way too much these days.  
  
When they started, Leo had been bigger in the Party than he was. Leo had been higher up in national politics that he was. Leo had known more than he did about running the country.  
  
Maybe then. Maybe even now. But then again, maybe not. Not anymore.  
  
Maybe Jed Bartlet was the only voice for peace. Was that too presumptuous to assume? Too egotistical to declare? He had an ego the size of Montana, according to Abbey. He thought he could fix anything. Was this just one more thing he would try to fix, only to meet disaster?  
  
The subtle straightening of the agents outside the bedroom door provided a needed splash of amusement. How did they go from ramrod straight to ramrod straighter? Nodding to them, he strode into the room, the energy of his turmoil taking him through the threshold with a gust of air following in his wake.  
  
It startled the other occupant of the room so that she jerked her head up and gave a little "Oh!"  
  
He pulled up abruptly and stared at her. She was supposed to have gone – somewhere, he couldn't remember exactly. But for some reason, one he wasn't questioning, she was there. A rush of relief lifted his chest.  
  
He knew she could read the anger, the frustration, in every tense line of his body, but he wasn't ready to address that yet. Better to start with something less critical. Something almost trivial even. He searched for something innocuous.  
  
"They want me to throw out the first pitch," he growled, tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair, unconcerned that it ended up halfway sprawled on the floor.  
  
"What?" Abbey looked up from what she had been reading, a medical journal probably, given the thickness and her recent foray back into surreptitious practice.  
  
"Toby and Josh. They want me to throw out the damn ball at Camden Yards."  
  
This revelation was sufficient for her to abandon the book. "They've seen you pitch?"  
  
Ouch. "I don't know. Maybe."  
  
"They've seen you shoot a basketball," she noted pointedly.  
  
"I can shoot a basketball," he proclaimed.  
  
"Well, true. We won't debate how well – "  
  
He waved her off, half acknowledging her point, and dropped into the same chair his jacket clung to. "Says it'll send the right message."  
  
She had shifted on the bed, and he noticed how the plum of her shirt brought out the natural flush of her cheeks. He wanted just to stare at the softness there, but the ubiquitous pressure wouldn't allow him even that moment.  
  
"Message about what?" It was subtle, but he heard the probing in her tone.  
  
"Gaza, I suppose."  
  
She signed, well aware of the treacherous situation in the Middle East, and fully aware of his choices. He had told her everything. Never again would he keep things from her. It had hurt both of them too much already. In fact, he had realized that for the past several weeks she had become more of his political advisor than his political advisors – even more than Leo, in many ways. The scowl that crossed his brow at the thought of his estranged chief of staff must have been obvious. She smiled softly.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
Jerking his chin once in acknowledgment of her concern, he said, "They're outraged."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The country. The world."  
  
"And you're not?"  
  
"Of course I am!" he snapped, not angry at her but unable to keep the fire from his voice. "I sent them over there. I sent Fitz – " And he stopped just in time to hold back the sob. The bed creaked as weight left it, and the gentle hand that settled on his shoulder allowed him a moment to compose himself, to regain control.  
  
More quietly this time, he continued. "Of course I'm outraged, but I can't just go out there with guns blazing. I bomb Gaza and it could destroy any chance we ever had at peace there. But the country wants – Leo wants – "  
  
He broke off again, still not sure what was happening between his oldest friend, his most trusted advisor, and him. Leo wanted war. How the hell could Leo want war? Then he remembered another, fateful conversation two years before in the opulent lobby of a New York theater.  
  
"What's your objection exactly, sir?"  
  
"Does this mean we join the league of ordinary nations?"  
  
"That's your objection? I'm not gonna have trouble saying the Pledge of Allegiance tomorrow."  
  
But that wasn't his objection. His objection – to the arguably justified assassination of an evil man – was that it was wrong. "It's absolutely wrong," he had told Leo.  
  
But he had done it, hadn't he? Had followed right along with Leo's urging and look what it got him. A conscience tortured, a daughter snatched from him, a wife almost lost. No, he would not chose violence so trustingly again, and not just because of the personal pain it had caused him, but because – well, because it was wrong.  
  
Dragging himself back to safer ground, he forced a chuckle and said, "So anyway, I'll appease the world – or at least Toby – by exhibiting my dexterity on the diamond."  
  
The ploy worked, but probably only because Abbey allowed him to pull her from the deeper topic. "It's an easy toss, Sweetheart," she reassured him, perching on the chair arm and running the fingers of one hand through his hair. Usually he relished her touch, but her words involuntarily drew him away from her.  
  
"What?" she asked, suddenly wary.  
  
"Well – "Might as well fess up. It would be hard for her to miss him when he pre-empted every network station and a few of the cable channels, too.  
  
"Well what?" The stroking had abruptly ceased.  
  
"Well, I'm not exactly throwing from the stands." Ease into it.  
  
"Not exactly?"  
  
"Not exactly."  
  
"Exactly where are you throwing from, Jed?" Her eyes had darkened with suspicion, her body tensed.  
  
"The, uh – the field." Coward.  
  
But she knew now. "Where on the field?" She would make him confess.  
  
Okay. Just do it. "I'm throwing from the mound, okay?"  
  
"The mound."  
  
"The mound."  
  
The beat was not long, but it was intense. And when it had passed she stood over him, chin jutted out, hands on hips. Attack stance.  
  
"Josiah Bartlet, what the hell are you thinking?"  
  
He swayed between defense and appeasement, and he wasn't sure if his response was either. "It'll be fine. I'll just throw it to the catcher easy and that'll be it. They're not expecting a fast ball or anything."  
  
But he realized almost immediately at her incredulous expression that she could not have cared less about his delivery.  
  
"I'm not talking about the pitch, Jackass. I'm talking about the bullet through your thick skull as you stand out there in front of 90,000 people who have an invitation to take pot shots at the President of the United States. They've already tried once – "  
  
"Actually, Camden Yards holds 48, 262 – "  
  
Okay that was a mistake, judging from the sudden darts that formed in her eyes. "They were shooting at Charlie," he reminded before he realized how foolish that comment was, too. "They missed."  
  
Her eyes narrowed, and he scrambled to recover. "I'll have a vest."  
  
"Yeah, lotta good that'll do you when they aim between the eyes – " She bit off the harsh words as if the sudden graphic visual she had created in her head jarred her with its horror. Calmer, she turned her back to him and asked, "You can't just throw from the stands?"  
  
He sighed, having already gone through this with Toby. "If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it all the way." It was one thing he stood firm on, even convincing Ron Butterfield it could work. "It's wussy to throw it from the stands."  
  
"Kennedy threw it from the stands," she argued.  
  
"Kennedy was a wuss," he countered.  
  
"John F. Kennedy was a wuss?"  
  
He blanched. When she put it like that – "Well, in that way, anyway."  
  
"Ron – "  
  
"Knows. He's working on the details." Now he softened, seeing the fear on her face behind the anger. As he stood, his fingers closed gently around her arm. "Abbey, it'll be okay."  
  
With a shaky sigh, she nodded and pushed up from her perch, completely unconvinced, but willing to drop it – at least for the time being. "So – no pressure, Mister President," she teased, forcing the lightness into her tone. "Just the world watching to see if you throw like a girl."  
  
"Hey!" he protested. "I'm not a novice to America's favorite pastime."  
  
Deliberately misinterpreting, she leered. "No, indeed, you most certainly are not."  
  
Relief washed through him. "I meant baseball," he scolded in mock anger.  
  
"Oh." When she played coy, she was incredibly sexy.  
  
"I played ball."  
  
"You played ball?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Her brow rose. "You played organized baseball?"  
  
"Well," he admitted, "depends on what you mean by 'organized'."  
  
"Okay – "  
  
"My games were organized."  
  
"By whom?"  
  
"Billy Washburn organized our games."  
  
"He was your coach?"  
  
"He was the kid who had the biggest back yard. He always divided the teams because we used his sister's tea set dishes as bases. At least until we lost 'em against the side of the garage with a good slide."  
  
"You," she declared, "are doomed."  
  
"I got game," he insisted.  
  
"Too bad it's not baseball," she returned.  
  
"You're really stroking my ego here, Abbey."  
  
She smirked. "Oh, was it your ego that needed stroking?" Her voice dropped into that hazy seduction that never failed to send a warm flush straight to his groin. "I thought it was something else."  
  
Her hand slid down his chest with no hesitancy at all, unbuttoning his suit vest and twisting as she approached the waist band of his trousers. With a bounce of her eyebrows, she dived below to bestow her firm strokes on 'something else.'  
  
At least her teasing was turning productive. The move had completely and effectively shattered any previous train of thought. With a groan, he pushed into her touch once before clutching her shoulders and drawing her to him. He was momentarily disappointed when her hand withdrew, but the insistent pressure of her lips on his and her groin against his more than made up for it. It ignited him. He felt the burn flare at the pit of his belly, felt the swelling heat ache as it tightened beneath his increasingly uncomfortable trousers. He rubbed against her, his body seeking relief from the sudden, overwhelming arousal, unable to get close enough to her even though she had wrapped one leg around his hips and thrust equally hard against him. He was dizzy with the rapid escalation of desire, and realized suddenly that if they didn't stop he was going to lose control and come right there without ever taking off his pants.  
  
Voice rough, he gasped, "Abbey," as he tried to push her back, to descend the precarious summit. But she shook her head firmly and drew his mouth back to hers, sucking hard on his tongue as her hand returned between his legs and gripped him through the straining, dampening fabric.  
  
"Abbey!" More urgently this time.  
  
She grinned at him, but took pity, easing her hand away just in time. He had been right at the edge.  
  
Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the chair and fought for control, still not sure he was completely in charge of his body. A knock at the door jarred him into turning so that his blatant reaction wouldn't be visible to the interloper, even though he imagined anyone could have read the frustration even in his shoulders.  
  
Abbey called out, "Come."  
  
A groan slipped past his lips. "God, Abbey, don't say that. I almost did."  
  
"What if I said, 'Come inside – '"  
  
The agent stepped in, and his President only narrowly avoided an embarrassing moment. The stern expression didn't waver from its constant solemnity, even if he did suspect something. "The Secretary of Defense is waiting for you in the Oval, sir."  
  
The President nodded, keeping his body turned still. Voice tight, he asked, "Give me a minute, would you?" Or ten –  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
When they were alone again, he pulled her to him and kissed her with as much heat and passion as he could risk in his perilous condition. When he finally pulled back, he noted with satisfaction her own rough moan.  
  
"You really have to go?" she whispered, her face against his neck, her hands threaded through his hair.  
  
No. Not going anywhere. Why the hell would I go anywhere when I could be right here making love to this amazing creature? "Yeah," he murmured reluctantly.  
  
After a couple of heavy breaths, he finally managed to ease away from the imminent release, re-buttoning his vest as he threw a rueful grin at his wife. "You gonna be here later?"  
  
She sighed, the apology apparent before she even spoke. "Probably not. I have meetings, but I'll try – "  
  
"It's okay," he assured her, heart falling more than a little.  
  
Catching his jaw in her palm, she said, "I will try, Jed."  
  
He nodded, knowing he wouldn't see her later, but knowing she really meant that she would try. After another tender, but much too brief kiss, he left her, and headed back into the debacle that was the Middle East, with only the dim prospect of being with her later to give him focus.  
  
Maybe Leo was right. Maybe he should just run down to the Home Depot and grab a shovel and some barbed wire. At least he wouldn't be the only one digging. 


	3. The Next Cy Young Winner

POV: Jed Spoilers: "Gaza;" "Memorial Day" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.  
  
Whence Gaza Mourns A West Wing Story  
  
by MAHC  
  
Chapter Three of Three (But there is a bonus chapter coming.)  
  
He still had the baseball in his hand when he left the West Wing and strode along the colonnade, wondering – not for the first time – why there was no easy connection from the Residence to the working arm of the building. Maybe someone felt there needed to be that separation between public and private. It was Theodore Roosevelt, wasn't it, who had expanded the Executive Mansion to include new office space on the west side of the house, protecting – or perhaps escaping from – his large brood. Or maybe it was Edith Roosevelt's idea so she could have the freedom to let them be children.  
  
Maybe it was positioned so that the man who could easily suffocate in the oppressive air of the room would have a chance to bring fresh oxygen into his lungs before he took the rare moments to reunite with his family.  
  
He wished Abbey was still there, but knew she would most certainly still be in her meetings. He needed to see her, to touch her. There was no one else in his corner at the moment. No one else – except maybe Kate Harper – who thought there was any chance of peace, any possibility that words and diplomacy could do the job better than a few FA-18s.  
  
"This is a waste of time," Leo had announced blatantly after he and Kate had pulled the President away from his rather destructive practice session in the hallway. And for the first time in their professional relationship, Jed Bartlet had not listened to his closest advisor, cutting him off abruptly with a polite, but firm, "Thank you."  
  
Not immediately grasping the message, Leo persisted, "You need to – "  
  
But another curt "Thank you" got the point across. Jed could still feel the astonishment from his friend as the chief of staff stared for a long moment, then left without another attempt at reason.  
  
He took the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the movement to carry him physically from one place to another. As he passed the agent at the bedroom door, he tossed the baseball casually and couldn't help grinning at the automatic reaction and quick snag. It was the same guy who had caught the lighter the night he had told Bob Ritchie he was going to kick his ass. The night he told Leo to have Shareef killed. The night he triggered events that had almost destroyed him.  
  
He barely heard the door close behind him as he stepped to the window and stared out, an exact repeat of his pensive pose in front of the Oval windows a few minutes earlier.  
  
Fifty casualties, they had said. Thirty in a reduced attack. Fifteen to twenty if they waited until the children were at school. And then what? What the hell would that solve? The Israelis would take the opportunity, as they had proven before, to "help" the U.S. retaliate. The Palestinians would respond, claiming that insurgents had acted without governmental authority. It would continue as it had for decades, centuries, even, and Josiah Bartlet would have only aided in its proliferation.  
  
Someone had to take a chance. Someone had to try at least to break the cycle of violence. Sadat and Begin had done it in 1979. He laughed ironically, just a quick breath, really. Both of those men were dead now, felled by assassins for their noble efforts.  
  
A click drew his attention and he turned, surprised to see Abbey enter. Thank God. Bless her for being there. Bless her for knowing he needed her to be there. It took every bit of control for him not to dash across the floor and catch her up against his chest. But that move would only worry her, would merely confirm her fears for his emotional state. Instead, he waved casually and lifted his chin in greeting.  
  
"Seems dark in the hall," she noted, tossing her briefcase onto a chair.  
  
He flinched. "Yeah. Listen, you know that lamp at the end of the room? That wasn't, say, Eleanor Roosevelt's lamp or anything, was it?"  
  
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean 'was'?"  
  
With a quick clearing of his throat, he assured her, "Nothing."  
  
Mercifully accepting that for the moment, she regarded him, then said, "You still going?"  
  
"Yeah. It'll be fine." He offered that as much for himself as for her.  
  
"Jed – "  
  
"It'll be fine," he repeated firmly, taking her hand in his, then added, "I've practiced," deliberately misinterpreting her main point of concern.  
  
She squeezed his fingers. "Did that practice include the demise of Eleanor's lamp?"  
  
A sheepish blush colored his cheeks. "Could have," he admitted.  
  
"You're wearing the vest?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Do they have a helmet, too?"  
  
He took another step forward and clasped her other hand. "Abbey, you put me in a vest and helmet and it'll ruin the whole effect. They might as well think I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger going out there."  
  
The smirk was expected. "You think they're gonna mistake you for Arnold Schwarzenegger?"  
  
"I was making a point," he protested, pulling her closer.  
  
"So was I." She let him touch his lips to her forehead.  
  
After a moment, he untangled one hand from hers and brushed his fingers through her hair. "It'll be fine. And I'll make a damned good pitch, too."  
  
"I know you will."  
  
His brow lifted and he leaned back to determine if he was being patronized, but her eyes met his in complete earnest, and the sincerity in them pulled a ragged breath through his throat. He drew her against him and enjoyed the comforting presence of her arms around his waist, of her head against his chest, of her hips against his hips.  
  
After a moment, she asked, "They're still pushing about Gaza?"  
  
"Mmm hmm."  
  
"Leo?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You'll do the right thing."  
  
Her assurance was a balm over his soul, especially after he had almost destroyed them with another choice. Why the hell hadn't he brought Shareef to her? But he knew. This was different. This was nothing he had caused – except to put Fitz and the others in harm's way. She didn't know what he would do – not really – but here she was giving him her support. It beat the hell out of where they had been a year – or even four months – ago.  
  
He wished he was as certain about it as she was.  
  
He felt one arm withdraw from around him and ease up between them to touch his face, then draw him down to meet her mouth in a tender kiss. Her body molded to his, 36 years of practice making the move natural and right. He didn't have time for anything too involved, but he couldn't resist allowing himself this indulgence in her delicious and soothing embrace.  
  
Her hand slipped behind his head to increase the pressure of the kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue teasing and seductive at once. He let his body respond to her heat – as if he could stop it – and dropped his hand to her hips, pulling her harder against him. They were fully involved in what earlier society had deemed "heavy petting" when the expected, but entirely unwelcome, knock interrupted.  
  
"Damn." True irritation colored her voice.  
  
He didn't respond to the signal immediately. Instead, he held her closer still, regretfully letting the intensity of the moment fade. He didn't want to go. He yearned to stay right there, to carry her to their bed, to feel her body under his, opening to him, wrapping around him, enveloping him in passion and love. But he couldn't. He had duties. He had responsibilities.  
  
"I'll be back, babe," he promised, letting his lips brush against her hair.  
  
"Be careful," she whispered into his shirt, her hands clutching at the material as if she didn't want to let go either.  
  
He nodded, knowing she felt the movement, even thought she didn't see it. As he pulled away, she reached up for one last, deep kiss that was undoubtedly calculated to reach to his soul and keep him warm for later. It worked.  
  
With a tender smile, he broke away and held her at arm's length, noting the brightness of her eyes, the stark fear she couldn't quite mask.  
  
"Abbey, it'll be okay."  
  
A nod was all he received, and he realized that maybe she didn't trust herself to say anything. With a couple of soft kisses against her palms, he made the final move toward the door.  
  
As he opened it, she managed to gather herself and call out, "Hey, Cy!"  
  
He turned and lifted a brow.  
  
Now seduction heated her cheeks, almost covering the anxiety. "Throw a strike and you're up for a substantial bonus after the game."  
  
With a grin, he held her gaze for a long moment, then asked, "What if I throw two strikes? Does that mean – "  
  
She laughed. "I assure you, hotshot, that your bonus will more than cover as many strikes as you want to throw. Just don't tire yourself out for the ceremony later."  
  
He swallowed. "You got it."  
  
They shared a final smile before he reluctantly walked into the hallway, even more determined to make the damned throw.  
  
Camden Yards was only a few minutes away by Marine One, a hop, skip, and jump from the White House – although any hopping or skipping was strictly frowned upon by the secret service, and so they arrived on time. The encompassing roar of the gathered fans was dulled a little in the tunnels, but not enough to mute the powerful disapproval that fairly beat from his chief of staff's body.  
  
"How many times have we tried negotiating?"  
  
Jed turned to him, voice raised to be heard. "We're not negotiating with the Chairman," he reminded.  
  
They had taken the stealth offer from the Prime Minister. They would meet without the Chairman. They would put calm, logical brains together to solve this entire damned mess. At least they had to try.  
  
"Your priority should be the security of this country."  
  
That got his attention and he glanced sharply at his friend, his face hard in defense. It was rare that Leo lectured. It revealed his complete frustration with the turn of events.  
  
But he wasn't finished. "I think you're gunshy, sir. The most important moment of your presidency and you're going to blow it because you're human. You're a father who almost lost – "  
  
He felt the impulse fly up to his hands and had to keep them from grabbing the other man's suit front. "You think this is about Zoey?" he snapped. "You're damned right it's about Zoey. And Ellie, and Elizabeth, and Mallory." That earned him a flinch. "It's about bombs in Macy's and Penn Station. And Starbucks." Finally, he was able to articulate just what bothered him, just what he had told Abbey earlier.  
  
"Bombing Gaza could be the most dangerous move this country has made in two centuries." And he sure as hell wouldn't be the one to do it.  
  
"– or not," Leo returned, his own color higher.  
  
"In seventy-five years we'll know if we're right or wrong, but nobody standing here today can tell me that with any certainty. I'm the guy in the office, Leo. I'll be the one who's judged."  
  
It was time. Baltimore waited. He hoped they were the only ones out there, hoped that some deranged – or paid – assassin didn't lurk in the stands to knock him off. But it didn't matter anymore. God wouldn't send him out now. He had bigger things to do.  
  
It should have been Leo. He had known that all along. It should have been Leo. But fate – or God's mysterious ways – had placed him there. It was his watch, his call. He would be the one judged 75 years into the future. Did he continue the cycle and do what everyone expected, what everyone demanded? Or did he buck every advisor he had – except Abbey and Kate Harper – and take the treacherous and unstable step toward the long-term quest for peace?  
  
He paused at the top of the steps, the adrenaline from both the noise and the danger pumping through his chest. The crowd erupted in enthusiastic cheers as he was announced. At least somebody still liked him. He thought he heard Leo's call then, the rare use of his name, of who he was, but he couldn't stop to see. He was on the field. Open season on the President if anyone really tried hard to get him. Didn't do any good to dwell on that now, though. The huge screen showed his every move, his smile, his wave. He wondered if it picked up the turmoil in his eyes, wondered if they saw the questions jostling for position in his brain. It occurred to him a little late that maybe it wasn't that wussy to throw it from the stands.  
  
Do it fast, Ron had advised. The less time with a target on his back, the better. Trying not to think too much about the pitch, he drew the ball from the glove and took a breath.  
  
That's when it hit. The sheer weight of his decision, the argument and break with Leo, the risk he was about to take with America, with the world. It almost overwhelmed him, and he knew the despair that swept over him had to show on his face. Desperately clamping down on the impossible tears that burned his eyes, he pressed his lips together hard and reared back for the pitch, willing all of the boiling emotions to flow from his heart and into his arm.  
  
It wasn't the fastest ball the Orioles' catcher had even been delivered, but it was crisp and hard, and it hit the mitt with a loud and satisfying smack, drawing screams of impressed appreciation from the crowd.  
  
"Steerike!" the umpire yelled cooperatively, but he didn't have to fudge at all. It really had been.  
  
As he straightened from the follow through, the President's grin was one of relief and satisfaction. At least he had done one thing right. The jumbo- tron replayed his form in slow motion, and he nodded his acknowledgement of the cheers that swelled again when the ball popped into the glove once more on the screen.  
  
A strike. He had earned himself a bonus for the evening – a substantial bonus, she had promised, although he suspected even if the ball had sailed into the stands, she would be there. He could sure as hell use it.  
  
But even with the wild accolades, even with the promise of a passionate night with his wife, he knew as soon as he stepped back under the stadium the decision was still his to make, and Leo still waited with advice he wouldn't take – couldn't take.  
  
And then the real game would begin. 


	4. Righteousness Binds the Conscience

This is for those of you who thought Jed had worked too hard to have to wait until September for his bonus. There's a little h/c in here, too, for those fans – and you know who you are! I suppose it is technically the fourth chapter (and final) of the story. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for the feedback.  
  
POV: Jed Spoilers: "Gaza;" "Memorial Day;" "NSFT" (6th season premier) Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish Jed was, at least.  
  
Whence Gaza Mourns "Bonus" Chapter  
  
by MAHC  
  
Jed Bartlet tried not to stumble out of the Sit Room, but he wasn't completely successful. Maybe it was the late – or early – hour. Maybe it was the final exhaustion of the adrenaline that had rushed through him all day. Maybe it was the fact that he had been played, and he hated to be played.  
  
Whatever it was, he cursed when his feet betrayed him and tossed him toward the door right there in front of the Joint Chiefs, Secretary of Defense, and Leo. Fortunately, he caught himself before he ended up in a humiliating heap on the floor. No harm done, except his pride – and the sudden, jarring pain that shot through his shoulder when he grabbed the door frame.  
  
"Mister President?" At least five different voices sounded around him, accompanied by an equal number of extended hands.  
  
Damn.  
  
Waving them off with his left hand, he straightened carefully and tried not to grimace, concentrating on making sure his shoes cleared the surface. A flash of heat swept just beneath his skin as he considered the possibility that this moment might be a harbinger of a familiar, but very unwelcome, visitor. But a quick assessment of his body seemed to dispel that, thank God.  
  
No, he was just tired. And frustrated. And more than a little pissed. Leo hadn't said "I told you so," but his pointed glances sent the message just as well.  
  
The Chairman can't be trusted. There is no solution. We should support the Israelis and just bomb the hell out of Gaza and be done with it.  
  
"Remember Chamberlain," his chief of staff had reminded after catching him on his victorious sprint off the diamond at Camden Yards, instantly shattering any glee from that momentary triumph.  
  
He remembered Chamberlain. He didn't intend to be Chamberlain. Chamberlain had been naïve. Jed Bartlet was not. Not anymore. But if there was even a remote possibility of truly bringing "peace for our time" he had to try. He just prayed there was no Hitler waiting to exploit his good faith.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Barely resisting the instinct to brace his throbbing shoulder, he turned to see Kate Harper hanging back uncertainly, her eyes clouded with concern. For him? For the situation? He wasn't sure.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"May I suggest, Mister President, that further discussion on this will keep until morning."  
  
He caught the scowl Leo threw her way. There had apparently been some give and take behind his back. Pushing away the irritation at his show of weakness, he gave her an indulgent half smile and asked, "Do I look that bad?"  
  
His tease worked just like it had the day before. She colored instantly. "Ah, no, sir. I didn't mean – I wasn't trying to imply that – "  
  
Another casual wave of his hand rescued her. He figured he probably did look that bad. "Go home, everybody. We'll tackle this tomorrow." A quick glance at his watch told him it already was tomorrow. "Or later today."  
  
"Mister President?" The Secretary of Defense stepped up to him, and with a nod from his boss, continued. "The Fa-18s are still on alert, sir. Whenever you give the word – "  
  
Another push. Who the hell was in charge, anyway? A flush of anger snapped out his response. "When I give the word. Remember that, Mister Secretary. They don't go until you hear it from ME."  
  
"Of course not, sir." The other man seemed astonished that the President would even suggest he would do otherwise, and Jed felt a twinge of guilt for the implication.  
  
Softening the moment with an acknowledging sigh, the commander in chief said, "I know," before he strode from the room, eager to leave the weight of the decision behind him, if only for a little while.  
  
What a mess. What a God-awful mess. And it was Jed Bartlet's mess to clean up. But did he spank the ones who created the mess and still have a mess, or did he make them all sit down and figure out how to clean up the mess once and for all? He knew what the answer was, but he wasn't sure he had the strength to withstand the unified front against it.  
  
He was sure of one thing, though: His shoulder hurt like hell. Now that he was away from too many prying eyes, secret service not withstanding, he gave in to the urge to press his left hand against the aching joint. He bet JFK hadn't had to ice his arm. He considered again that it might not be so wussy to throw from the stands.  
  
"Are you all right, Mister President?" The agent's question pulled Jed's head up from his bowed contemplation and he realized that he was almost at the Residence, not having really taken any notice of the journey there.  
  
Dropping the hand abruptly, he assumed a jauntier stride, even though he figured the guy wasn't the least bit fooled. "How ya' doin', Tom?"  
  
"I'm fine, sir." At least he took a hint. "Turning in?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Have a good night, sir."  
  
"What's left of it."  
  
A slight grin curved the normally straight mouth. "Yes, sir."  
  
Jed wondered if the smile was because of his comment, or because he actually got the fellow's name right.  
  
He glanced at his watch again: 1:30 a.m. Well, there went his bonus. Abbey would have been asleep for some time now. Too bad, too, because he had earned it. And he had the wounds to prove it – both physical and emotional. Still, it was a beautiful strike. Fifty-thousand fans seemed to agree, if the cheers and screams were any indication. And Charlie had even high-fived him enthusiastically before Leo's announcement screwed up his satisfaction.  
  
In just a few minutes, he was slipping through the double doors and closing them quietly behind him, navigating the dark room with the expertise of one who had done it for six years already. Jacket first, then shoes, then trousers, draped not quite neatly over a chair back. He realized for the first time that he had not retrieved his suit vest from whoever took it when he was getting into the protective bullet proof vest. Well, it would turn up sooner or later – probably. And if it didn't, that would be okay, too. Abbey had told him to ditch it anyway. Claimed it gave her too many layers to go through. Socks followed, along with a shirt only partially unbuttoned and still tangled with his tie. Now, if he could just ease under the covers without disturbing her –  
  
The snap of the light switch and the sudden illumination of the room startled him, and he spun so quickly that he forgot about the tender shoulder. The twist of his body wrenched it again, and he sucked in air between gritted teeth. But the pain dimmed immediately, replaced by an ache in an entirely different area as his eyes focused on the sight before him, poured into the wingback armchair.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen – Cannonball Bartlet, 2004 Cy Young Winner."  
  
He wasn't sure what affected him most, the sexy swirl of the drink in her hand, the sleek netted stockings that clung seductively to her long legs, the wicked half-smile that touched her lips, or the creamy swell of her breasts over the incredible lace bodice. He lingered at her breasts. Okay, maybe he was sure.  
  
After a breathless moment, he recovered enough to manage a verbal response. "I thought you'd be asleep." Well, that was pretty lame, but he considered it amazing that he had been able to utter anything at all.  
  
"You held up your end of the bargain," she reasoned, "I had to do my part." With another swirl of the glass, she sipped at the burgundy liquid while her eyes held his, fire blazing in their green depths.  
  
The realization that he would, indeed, receive his bonus tonight kicked his heart into overdrive and sent the blood rushing toward his groin. The boxers were woefully overpowered by his body's insistence.  
  
"Is that a curveball in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"  
  
Before he could answer – and he had no idea what to say anyway – her legs uncrossed and re-crossed, flashing him an ephemeral glimpse of paradise in a credible re-enactment of the infamous Basic Instinct scene.  
  
The ache at his groin intensified to the point that he almost felt dizzy. His head buzzed, his heart pounded, his knees weakened. This gorgeous creature was here before him, offering herself, and he would be the only one to touch her, to take her, to claim her. He cringed inside when he thought of how she might react to his using that particular term. One didn't claim Abigail Bartlet – at least not involuntarily. He would keep that thought to himself.  
  
But he would still keep it.  
  
"Have you – "To his chagrin, his voice cracked like a pubescent teenager's. He tried again. "Have you been waiting here all night?"  
  
"Just for you."  
  
"Seriously, Abbey, you've been sitting in that chair like – like that – all evening?" What if someone walked in?  
  
"You don't think I would?" The teasing pout pushed out her lips. God, she was beautiful.  
  
"Well, I just think – "  
  
"Tony called ahead when you passed him on the way up," she finally admitted. "Gave me a few minutes warning."  
  
Tony? Ah. Not Tom. Well, he had been close.  
  
"But I have had this on all night. Just waiting for you."  
  
"Abbey," he groaned, her name slipping from his lips as she shifted again in the chair, this time more slowly, giving him an unobstructed view of exactly where he wanted to be – where he yearned to be.  
  
"You, Mister President," she cooed, setting the glass down and gliding from the chair, "were very, very good tonight."  
  
Her hands slid up his chest to play with the curls that had begun graying when he was still in the 30s. She never could resist them. His blood leaped toward her.  
  
"Yeah?" Smooth, Romeo, but it was the best he could do.  
  
"Oh, yeah." She smiled and trailed delicate, talented fingers down his abdomen to tease through the darker patch of hair just above his waistband.  
  
"The night's not over," he countered. "I might just turn bad."  
  
Her tongue flicked out to lick at his chin. "Promise?"  
  
"Prom – " He had lifted his arms to draw her against him, but the stab of pain in his right shoulder aborted the move abruptly. Damn it, not now!  
  
Seductress Abbey morphed into Doctor Abbey with no effort at all. "Jed? What is it?"  
  
He knew what it was. Ego, machismo, pride. "Nothing," he answered, but the tight discomfort in his voice completely destroyed his attempt to minimize the problem. Abbey glared at him, totally un-swayed.  
  
Coloring a little with the necessity of admitting to imperfection, he conceded, "Shoulder's a little sore from pitching. Toby and Charlie didn't want me to embarrass them on national television."  
  
Cocking her head, she apparently decided to accept his explanation and smiled, returning her hands to his body, this time focusing on the offending limb. "Poor baby," she clucked. "But their persistence paid off, didn't it? That was a very impressive performance."  
  
"You saw?"  
  
"Of course I saw. I had to have proof that you deserve that bonus, didn't I?"  
  
His abused muscles eased slightly under her touch. "Oh, I deserve it, but you know I can be impressive in other ways, too."  
  
"How well I know," she purred, but their heated banter cooled when she hit a particularly tender spot, and he couldn't hold back the yelp. Now her teasing tone dropped completely.  
  
"That bad?"  
  
He started a casual shrug, but decided that would be unwise on many levels. Instead, he grinned sheepishly and admitted, "It hurts some." Like a baseball bat slammed into it, maybe.  
  
"You could have done some real damage, Jed," she scolded, hands probing now with none of the passion they had carried earlier. Strictly a clinical touch. "I don't know why you didn't just throw from the stands."  
  
"That's – "  
  
"Wussy, I know. And you're going to look real tough tomorrow with your arm trussed up in a sling."  
  
"Abbey, I'm fine, really. It's just so – ow!" A knife sliced directly through the center of his joint, piercing bone and muscle and tendon and whatever else was there. "Damn it, Abbey! That hurt!"  
  
But she only nodded unapologetically. "I don't think it's separated, but you've strained it quite nicely."  
  
"It's just sore."  
  
Her palm began to press once more on the spot of agony. Hastily, he pulled away. "Okay. Maybe it's a little strained. It'll be fine."  
  
"No," she said slowly, hand at her chin as if contemplating the situation, "I think you need medical attention."  
  
Medical attention? That meant Hackett and that certainly meant an end to his bonus evening. "Abbey, you don't need to call Hackett," he wheedled.  
  
"Who said anything about calling Hackett?" she tossed over her shoulder as she sauntered toward the bathroom.  
  
Surely she didn't mean that SHE would treat him. Hadn't they gotten into enough trouble before with that? But his fears dissipated when she returned and leaned seductively against the doorframe, a bottle of what he recognized as massage oil in one hand.  
  
"One shoulder rub coming up," she announced, her voice huskier. "Doctor's orders."  
  
Well, that was more like it. He could go for that kind of medicine. Lifting a brow, he asked, "Where do you – want me?"  
  
"On the bed, of course. Lie down on your stomach."  
  
He did as he was told, and expected her to perch next to him, or maybe to stand beside him. But she had other plans. Tossing the bottle next to his shoulder, she climbed onto the bed and over his body, straddling his hips so that her stocking legs gripped him firmly. The arousal that had faded with the pain returned at double the intensity. This time he couldn't stop the groan.  
  
Her hands, slick with the oil, glided over his throbbing muscles, rubbing and kneading the soreness out through her fingers and palms. She spread the liquid warmth down his arm, over his biceps and triceps and across the broad muscles of his back. Slowly, the sharp pain receded to a distant ache, overwhelmed by the magic of her touch.  
  
"God, that feels good," he murmured into the pillow, the melting muscles sighing with relief. If it weren't for the raging erection that now pushed against the mattress, he might have sunk into a blissful slumber.  
  
As it was, her hands only heightened his senses, electrified the sensations coursing through his body. After a long time, he felt her shifting, spreading the silkiness over his lower back. She lifted off him long enough to tug at the boxers, and he eased his hips up to help her slide them from his body.  
  
"How's the shoulder?" she asked as her fingers dug into his hamstrings.  
  
"What shoulder?"  
  
Her hands pulled gently at his sides, urging him onto his back. He smiled at her molten expression when she saw just how intensely she had affected him. When he was in place, she straddled him again, bracing on her knees so that he pushed against her.  
  
"God, Abbey!" He was as aroused as he had been in his youth when the surges of testosterone were the constant companions of adolescence.  
  
His hands reached up to capture her breasts in his palms, and she gasped as his thumbs flicked over her nipples. With an expert twist, he had the hooks of the bodice undone, and the enticing material fell away from her to reveal the treasure beneath. He felt his body thrust forward.  
  
She reached a hand to her thigh to unsnap the stocking from the garter, but he covered her fingers with his own.  
  
"Leave them on," he ordered hoarsely, pushing a little farther into her.  
  
Now his hands slid to her hips, taking control of the progress, forcing the pace. He didn't think he could take much more of being almost there. "Abbey, I need – "  
  
She groaned and spread her knees so that she dropped onto him. He couldn't help the harsh grunt.  
  
"Yeah, that was – what I – needed."  
  
His hands ran up and down her thighs as he entered her, then withdrew. She arched against him with the movement, her own hands playing across his chest, his stomach, then between them. They were both too far gone to stop the momentum now, both too eager, too inflamed to hold back – even if they had wanted to.  
  
When he finally heard the little cries, soft and high, he bent forward to take a nipple in his mouth and suck firmly.  
  
"Jed!" As his name left her lips, she drove down on him, the ripples tearing through her muscles and gripping him hard over and over.  
  
He grunted, biting his lip to hang on just a few more seconds, to make sure she was fully satisfied. She gasped with each wave, moaning his name again and again, until finally her cries began to soften.  
  
With a deep groan, he turned them so that he was above her, then let his trembling muscles go until the unbearable ache shot through his body in hot, powerful bursts that exploded at her center and triggered another series of convulsions from her.  
  
Sweating and shaking, he continued to rock against her gently, sliding in and out as they came down from the pinnacle. Her low moan of complete satisfaction stroked his male ego, but it was overshadowed by his genuine desire to give her pleasure.  
  
Beneath him, she grunted and said, "You know, the baseball commissioner wanted to give you the bonus himself, but I told him I'd take care of it."  
  
"Thank God for little favors."  
  
He wanted to stay right where they were, to remain inside her until they were ready for another round, but, despite her expert ministrations to his shoulder, it was aching again. Regretfully, he withdrew from her and slid to the side.  
  
"So," she whispered, her eyes closed, "was it worth it?"  
  
He lay back on the pillows and gathered her against him. "Was what worth what?"  
  
"Was almost jerking your arm out of socket worth your bonus?"  
  
It wasn't like Abbey to fish for compliments. She was looking for something deeper. But his answer remained light. "Babe, it would have been worth jerking every joint I have out of socket."  
  
Smiling, she snuggled into his left shoulder. "Okay."  
  
"Okay."  
  
They lay in silence for a few minutes, and he thought she had fallen asleep until she said, "What are you going to do?"  
  
"About what?" But he knew.  
  
"Gaza. The Chairman." She paused, then added, "Leo."  
  
He knew she felt him stiffen and was grateful for the gentleness of her continued caress over his stomach. "I'm gonna try for peace." He almost laughed. It seemed so simple when he put it that way.  
  
"And Leo?"  
  
He tried not to lecture her anymore. She had heard all of his pontifications, and didn't pay him any attention anyway, but something he read somewhere flittered through his brain. "Theodore Roosevelt said once that peace is normally a great good, and normally it coincides with righteousness, but it is righteousness and not peace which should bind the conscience of a nation as it should bind the conscience of an individual."  
  
"Okay – " He heard the question in her voice.  
  
With her he could ask his own question. "Am I doing the right thing? Is it righteousness that binds me?"  
  
She pushed up now to look at him. "Do you think you are?"  
  
He sighed and completed the quote. "He also said that neither a nation nor an individual can surrender conscience to another's keeping."  
  
Her eyes narrowed as she perceived his real trouble. "Have you done that?"  
  
"Maybe. Maybe with Leo I have. Maybe I've let him make the hard calls. Maybe I've figured the results would be on his conscience. He's always been willing."  
  
"You haven't, Jed. You've gone against Leo when you thought he was wrong. You have been your own man."  
  
Not with Shareef. Not when it mattered the most. But he didn't bring that up. She knew it just as well as he did. Instead, he said, "Not often. At least not until now." He raised a hand to run his fingers through her tousled hair. "Leo wants to bomb Gaza."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I don't."  
  
"I know."  
  
"We're not going to bomb."  
  
She smiled. "I know."  
  
"But what if – "  
  
Her fingers against his lips stopped him. "It's your conscience, Jed. It's your righteousness. It's your peace. You are the President of the United States of America."  
  
Dear God, he was, wasn't he? Even after six years he still occasionally woke to the renewed realization of that bizarre reality. President of the United States. Who would have thought?  
  
He stared at her, the only person who was whole-heartedly with him, and felt the tears push at his eyes. They had been through so much. He had wondered in the past year if she would stay, had actually questioned her love and her promise to remain in sickness and in health. He didn't anymore. He wouldn't again.  
  
"Well, if it doesn't work out, I always have my career in baseball," he reasoned, letting the smile touch his lips as he finished the sentence.  
  
"A bonus for every strike?" she offered, swinging her left leg over his torso and pulling herself on top of him again.  
  
"What about balls?"  
  
The warm laughter slapped away the doubts and tension. "Wicked boy," she accused, while reaching down at the same time to that sensitive area.  
  
He closed his eyes at her touch and drew his arms around her, the familiar stirrings returning, the welcome desires re-igniting. Tomorrow he would tackle the Chairman. Tomorrow he would stare down Leo, and the Joint Chiefs, and the Cabinet, and Congress.  
  
Tomorrow.  
  
But tonight, he was apparently still collecting on a bonus for making the best pitch any President had ever made at a Memorial Day game. He was right. Tossing it from the stands was for wusses.  
  
And Jed Bartlet was no wuss.  
  
The crowd at Camden Yards had found that out tonight. The world would know it tomorrow.  
  
My good friends, this is the second time in our history that there has come back from Germany to Downing Street peace with honour. I believe it is peace for our time. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts. And now I recommend you to go home and sleep quietly in your beds.  
  
Neville Chamberlain Sept. 30, 1938  
  
Peace is normally a great good, and normally it coincides with righteousness, but it is righteousness and not peace which should bind the conscience of a nation as it should bind the conscience of an individual; and neither a nation nor an individual can surrender conscience to another's keeping.  
  
Theodore Roosevelt December 4, 1906 


End file.
